CHAPTER 3
Having spent the better part of an hour searching for her office, Scarlett was lucky enough to run into a maintenance worker who knew exactly where she was supposed to be.
Set in the far corner of the stadium on the visitors’ side was a sizable office with an L-shaped desk, a computer, a few empty bookcases, and a window that overlooked one of the parking lots.
There was a mirror on the back of the door and several hooks screwed into the cream-colored walls—for coats, Scarlett assumed.
The entire office gave off a rather bland sort of vibe, but she would rectify that soon enough.
Inspecting her surroundings, she noticed that there was a kettle, but there wasn’t a Keurig. Did they have Keurigs in England? They had to, but Scarlett wasn’t sure and didn’t want to ask anyone in case she sounded like an idiot.
But then, she’d bet Mr. Wrong Number would know. And seeing as he didn’t know who she was, there wasn’t any risk of appearing foolish.
Taking the phone out of her back pocket as she sat down at her desk, she began to text him.
Hello again.
Hello.
I have a question, and it might be a stupid one, but as I don’t know you, I’m not worried about sounding stupid.
Go on.
Are Keurigs a thing in the U.K.?
They are, but you might have better luck with a Nespresso machine. Their pods are easier to find in stores over here.
Do they make a decent cup of coffee, or is it like, fancy?
“Fancy” meaning…?
I don’t want anything involving grinding my beans or petite cups filled with liquid cocaine. I want regular coffee.
A link appeared for a single-cup Nespresso machine.
It’s decent. I promise.
Scarlett clicked on the link, curious why she should trust the promise of a stranger. But then she ordered it, typing in the address of the stadium.
Thank you.
Sure thing. Do you need a link for a kettle too?
No thanks. I only drink tea when I’m hungover.
Then Scarlett quickly added,
Which is rare.
I’m sure.
It is.
I believe you.
Scarlett was about to continue when the manager of the women’s team knocked on the frame of her open door. A tall, light-skinned Black woman with long pink braids stood behind her.
“Coach Marrero,” Scarlett said, standing before she remembered to correct herself. “I mean, Manager Marrero. How are you?”
“Simmons,” Marrero replied, tilting her head to the woman on her left, “this is April Dawson, captain of the women’s team.”
Scarlett came around the desk with her hand held out. “April, it’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. And you can call me Dawson. Everyone does.”
“Okay. So, what can I do for you?”
“Well,” Dawson said, glancing at her manager before settling on Scarlett, “we were wondering, since you’ve been given a fair amount of influence regarding the Bees, if we might be able to get in a few morning practices now that Chard is willing to put a little more flex behind the women’s team.”
“Morning practices?” Scarlett repeated, confused. “You don’t have morning practices?”
“No,” Dawson said. “Which has been okay, I suppose, since most of our players work other jobs, but if we could have one day, other than when the men are at away games, to practice on the field so that we can have a night at home, well, that would be helpful to a lot of us.”
The idea that the women’s team didn’t have any practices during the day was not only baffling to Scarlett but downright insulting. Sure, it was a shared stadium, and the men’s team had been there first, but when Scarlett played for the Gotham, they always practiced during the day.
“Of course the women’s team should have some day practices. It’s wild that you don’t already.”
“It’s been a bit of a take-what-you-can-get situation here,” Marrero said. “But Dawson had an idea. Since they brought you on specifically to boost the women’s team’s visibility, you might have more influence than you realize.”
“Well, I was brought on to help the entire organization, but I’m always going to try to do whatever I can for the women’s team. I’ll make this a priority.”
Dawson elbowed Marrero. “See? I told you it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“We’ll see,” Marrero said, unconvinced as another body entered the room.
“Knock, knock,” Gary said, strolling in. “I came to… Oh… Marrero.”
For the first time since Scarlett had met her this morning, Marrero appeared slightly flustered.
“Fielding,” she said evenly before addressing Scarlett. “Well, I should go.”
“Right, I should go as well,” Gary said, spinning around.
“Ah, you just got here?” Scarlett reminded him.
“Yes, but I, um, forgot something. Excuse me,” he said as Marrero tried to move past him. He paused, having gotten in her way. They shuffled once, then twice, until they both went the opposite way out of Scarlett’s office.
She turned to Dawson, who was shaking her head. “What was that all about?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Work gossip on the first day? Yes, please. “Tell me.”
Dawson folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the edge of Scarlett’s desk. “Fielding and Marrero have a bit of a history.”
“Do they?” Scarlett asked. “I thought Marrero had only been here a few months.”
“Oh, she has, but supposedly, they were something of an item back in uni.”
Scarlett’s eyes widened. “They used to date?”
“Not only that, they were engaged.” Dawson leaned forward. “For a few years, too.”
“What happened?”
Dawson shrugged. “No one knows. We only found out that they were engaged when Fielding’s mother came by to pick him up because his car was being worked on. She saw Marrero in the parking lot with a few of us players, and it was awkward, to say the least.”
“How so?”
“Well, Fielding’s mother exited the car and came over and hugged Marrero like she couldn’t believe she was seeing her.
Fielding dragged her away soon enough, but his mother became a little misty-eyed and left us so shocked that Marrero had to explain it.
But all she said was that they had been engaged a long time ago and hadn’t seen each other in years until she started here.
” Dawson’s brows wiggled up and down. “It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? ”
“I’ll say,” Scarlett said as her phone buzzed on her desk. “Oh, excuse me.”
Reaching for it, she read the text from Mr. Wrong Number.
Random question, but what are your thoughts on ties?
Scarlett smiled. That was a random question.
“Boyfriend?” Dawson asked, causing Scarlett to glance up.
“Hm? Oh, no. Some… Er…” She made a face. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s a weird situation.”
“I love weird situations.”
Scarlett laughed. “Well, when my plane landed, I was supposed to text this car service company, but I messaged the wrong number, and now I’ve been texting this random guy for the last twenty-four hours and…
” She looked up to see a mildly bewildered expression on Dawson’s face.
“I’m sorry. I’m just realizing how insane that sounds. ”
“It’s not insane. I mean, it’s weird, but not insane.”
Scarlett grimaced and pocketed her phone. “I don’t even know why we keep texting each other. It’s only random questions here and there.”
Dawson shrugged, pushing herself up off the edge of the desk. “If it’s fun and there isn’t any downside, who cares? Listen, I’ve got to get to work. I only stopped in to check out the suggestions for the new kit designs, but I’ll see you Sunday night, I’m guessing?”
“Sunday night?”
“It’s women’s practice, and Marrero said you wanted to meet us as a team and individually?”
“Right. Yes, I do.” Scarlett nodded. “Sunday night it is.”
“Cool. Good luck with your text buddy,” Dawson said with a wink as she left Scarlett in the office.
Alone again, Scarlett pulled her phone back out, sat in her office chair, and reread his message before replying.
As in neckties?
Yes.
I don’t think I have much of an opinion on them. Why?
Three little dots shimmered for a moment.
The thing is, I know they’re passe, particularly in my line of work, but I’ve always felt that they bring a level of professionalism that can’t be replicated by business casual attire.
Business casual is my middle name.
Don’t get me wrong. Business casual has its place, but I can’t seem to stop wearing ties.
Maybe it’s not that deep. Maybe you simply like them?
I do. I can’t help it. I think I just wanted to say that to someone, since it’s ridiculous and not something I’d ever bring up with any of my coworkers. Or anyone, for that matter.
The corner of Scarlett’s mouth hitched up. She was well aware of the small idiosyncrasies that popped up throughout the day at work.
Well, now that I’ve given it some consideration, I think ties are quite professional.
I know you’re humoring me, but I don’t care.
She let out a small huff of laughter, then she remembered something. What color are your eyes?
My eyes? Why?
I once read an article about dressing for success, and there was a part about complementing eye color with clothing, particularly ties. Supposedly, you can captivate coworkers by wearing the right colors. So, what color are your eyes?
Gray.
What kind of gray?
I don’t know, grayish gray?
Scarlett rolled her eyes.
Are they charcoal? Silver? Ash?
Hold on, I have to look those up.
Scarlett bit her lip and put her phone down. When it buzzed, however, she immediately picked it up.
I think grayish blue.
Try wearing a green tie, then. I know it doesn’t sound like it’d work, but supposedly undertones of blue pop with greens.
What color are your eyes?
Brown.
What kind of brown?
Scarlett’s cheeks warmed.
Dark brown. I’ve been told they’re similar to chocolate.
A boyfriend tell you that?
Yes. But she didn’t have to tell him that.
No.
Biting her bottom lip, she added,
I don’t have a boyfriend currently.
Girlfriend?
Nope.
Husband? Wife? Significant other?
Unattached.
Interesting.
“Miss Simmons?” Gary said, popping his head back into her office.